


of blood; of life

by halfcharacter



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussions of Godhood, M/M, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Temporary Character Death, [cate blanchett voice] tell me zagreus what were you the god of again?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfcharacter/pseuds/halfcharacter
Summary: Zagreus is the god of nothing, or so he thinks. He’s fine with this, until he’s not.
Relationships: Achilles & Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Megaera & Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Nyx & Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 455





	of blood; of life

“—his sharp-hoofed stallions  
trampled shields and corpses, axle under his chariot splashed  
with blood, blood on the handrails sweeping round the car,  
sprays of blood shooting up from the stallions' hoofs  
and churning, whirling rims—and the son of Peleus  
charioteering on to seize his glory, bloody filth  
splattering both strong arms—”

— _The Iliad_ , Book Twenty.  
  


* * *

_  
Prince of the Underworld,_ they call him.

He tests the weight of the blade in his hand, admiring the bright glow of its molten metal, near blinding against the dim light of his shadowy chambers. Achilles had provided him the pieces, told him but briefly that each piece had once been part of a whole, and as Zagreus balances the blade on his forefinger, testing the weight, he feels as though he can sense it calling; _Zagreus! Zagreus!_

He throws it up into the air, revels in the briefest flash of indignation that he feels from the blade, crackling down his arm like a current of his uncle’s lightning, and catches the sword deftly again by the grip.

_We will do great things, Stygius_ _,_ he thinks. _We_ will _escape from here.  
_ _  
_

* * *

  
Achilles had begun to suspect when Zagreus was still a child. Or, as much of a child one can be when one is a god. He appeared, at least, as a child: fingers grabbing onto every object within arm’s length, baby fat still clinging to his ruddy cheeks.

Nyx placed him onto the cool marble floor of the training hall, clad in a dark red tunic and gold wreath. She had presented him to the shade, newly felled, heel still bearing the scar made by the arrow that Paris had loosed from his bow.

“This,” she had said in that airy, weightless whisper of hers, “is Zagreus.”

At that time, Achilles had been resentful of his new position within the halls of the dead, still full of fire and anger and hurt, and so had regarded the tiny Zagreus with a dismissive air. “He is but a child, my queen. Despite your protests, I do not train children.”

He had turned away, palm gripping the haft of his spear tightly, when there came the sound of tiny pattering feet and crackling flame behind him. Achilles had spun on his heel just in time to see the flash of two tiny feet, very much on fire, as they kicked him right in the greaves.

Achilles didn’t so much as flinch from the glancing blow, and the tiny Zagreus kicked him again in frustration. There was no weight behind his blows, and it was almost endearing.

“Stubborn little one, isn’t he?” Achilles remarked, now rather amused despite himself. “Tell me, what is he the god of?”

Nyx didn’t reply, merely folding her arms. “Zagreus,” she called. “Please refrain from hitting our guest.”

Zagreus scowled, but stopped, crossing his arms in an imitation of his mother. “Why doesn’t he want to meet me?”

“I don’t want to meet anyone, lad,” Achilles replied. “I’d rather be left alone.”

“Mother—”

“Let him be, child.”

Achilles resumed walking away. He had only gotten halfway across the training hall when he heard a yell of frustration and the sound of feet running towards him again. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of feet skidding on the smooth flooring and a resounding crash. He turned to see the tiny god-child sprawled in a mess on the marble, Nyx running over with twinkling starlight following her every move.

The boy pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. As Achilles and Nyx approached, Zagreus wiped his mouth with his forearm, leaving behind a bright red smear of blood on his pale skin.

Nyx froze in her tracks.

Achilles looked up at her. Her expression was unreadable, but her hands were gripping the gauzy fabric of her chiton so tightly that the delicate fabric looked like it was about to tear. Not seeing his mother’s distress, Zagreus picked himself up, tested his sharp teeth against where he had bitten through his lip, and wiped his bloody forearm on his tunic. Only then did he look up at his mother.

“What’s this red stuff, Nyx?” he asked, gesturing down at the smear on his arm.

Her eyes widened in fear, and Achilles frowned at her. She glanced up, caught his gaze. 

_She was afraid,_ Achilles thought. _Afraid of what he could be._

“What did you say he was the god of, again?”

“I didn’t,” she replied, as she gathered the child up in her arms, wiping the blood from his skin with her own dress. “I didn’t say.”  
_  
_

* * *

  
He feels the thrust of the blade go straight into his gut with a sickening lurch, nicking the bone of his ribs with a jerk as it slices straight through the soft tissue of his internal organs. He just has enough time to wonder what piece of advice Skelly’s going to give him this time as his vision goes black and he topples backwards into the freezing waters of the Styx.

_Dammit, not again.  
  
_

* * *

  
The first time Zagreus had died, it had been entirely an accident. He had been sparring with Megaera, revelling in the sound of her whip cracking through the air, leaping and dodging her blows as he thrust with his practice blade. This one was bronze; gleaming dark gold in the light of the sconces on the wall, for when Zagreus had asked Meg which one she would prefer he use on her, she grinned at him, sharp teeth flashing as she said: _are we not gods, unafraid of death?_

Zagreus didn’t think he was afraid of death, knowing that for him, it was not permanent. But he had no idea of how it would _feel_ , and it was the unknown he was unsure of. Thanatos had always commented that he brought it upon the mortals as gently as he could: sometimes in their sleep, or after advanced years and an acceptance of mortality, or simply from expiration after a particularly rousing night. _As simple as falling asleep,_ Thanatos had said, looking more and more like his twin as he did so, _just a long sleep._

But Zagreus knew of war, and of murder, and of bloodshed, and could not reconcile it all with the image of Thanatos, serene and gentle, gliding through the halls of Hades with his scythe tucked under one arm. He knew of their sisters, the Keres, who never remained in the underworld for long; called back to the mortal realm all too often by distant cousin Ares. But he knew nothing of what they were like: their names or faces or personalities. He had never embraced them the way he embraced Thanatos, never ran his hands through their hair or listened to the sound of their quiet breaths during slumber. He did not know of violent death, what their lips felt like against his or what noises they would make if he touched them.

It was right in the middle of all this musing that Megaera had snapped her whip and sent Zagreus flying straight into a column, head cracking clean open against the dark granite stone.

He had woken up underwater, choking on the bloody freezing current of the Styx before his hands found purchase on the surface and he had pulled himself out, gasping and shuddering on the stone steps before his father’s throne.

He was so _cold._

“Ah, first time is it?” came his father’s booming voice from down the hallway, and Zagreus looked up between his dripping mass of wet hair to see his father dispassionately looking down at his son, sodden and chilly.

“What happened?” Zagreus gasped. “Did I die?”

“And came back,” his father replied simply. “The painful way. I believe Megaera wanted to speak to you.” And with that, the Lord of the Dead strode off back down the hallway to his throne, leaving Hypnos standing there awkwardly, wringing his hands and glancing up and down at his board as Charon pushed his boat back out and rowed away.

Zagreus found Megaera later in her chambers, hands fingering the braids of her favourite whip, the one she had killed Zagreus with. She looked uncharacteristically nervous.

“What happened?” Zagreus asked in lieu of a greeting as he crossed her threshold. She looked up and shook her head.

“There was _so much_ blood,” she whispered. “It’s not the death that scares me. It’s the…”

It hangs unspoken between them, like Damocles’ sword held above the throne by a single hair from a horse’s tail. _Mortal?_ Megaera wants to ask. _But it cannot be, for you are still here. You are not a shade like the rest of them. You are immortal, but how is it you bleed?_

_Am I truly immortal?_ Zagreus wants to ask. He remembers a first meeting, the flash of fear behind his mother’s eyes as he wipes a bloody smear on his arm.

“What _are_ you, Zagreus?”

“I’m the god of nothing,” he replies, feeling less sure of himself even as he says it. “I’m but a prince.”

**Author's Note:**

> [dusts off classical history degree] finally i have a use for this
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/halfcharacter)!


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